


His Wanderer

by fritzbitz



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, F/M, I'm Sorry, Not A Happy Ending, The Institute - Freeform, The Railroad, spoilers for everything after the signal interceptor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5879242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritzbitz/pseuds/fritzbitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tear falls from her eye, but before he has time to react to that she is at his lips, kissing him like the bombs are about to fall again, and if they did he thinks he wouldn’t mind. He clears his mind of all thoughts except those of his Wanderer in his arms, and how he hopes it will last. The tears that stream down her face flavor their kiss. It tastes like goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Wanderer

She is a terrible liar, his Wanderer. Bright as the sun and just as blinding, she is above all a big, beautiful distraction, his wild card when all bets were already placed, and if he was one for hope then all his faith would be in her. 

So as Wanderer steps onto the signal interceptor, Deacon can't help the lump he feels at the back of his throat. She's not going to be able to do it. She's going to go in there with every intention of fooling the Institute into thinking she's working for them, but they're going to see right through her lies because _everybody_ always sees through them, and if she manages to get out then the Railroad is back to square one again. He decides not to think about the possibility that she doesn’t make it out. 

“I'm ready, Tom! Don’t turn me into spaghetti, please!” she yells from the platform as the device powers up. There is no hesitation in her voice. This has been planned for too long, and she is all too confident in her chances.

Deacon wants to call everything off, to run up there and tell her it was all a horrible plan and they'll find some other way in, but he knows he can't. This is the only way, and she is the only one who can do this. So he stands as close to the device as he dares, puts on a cocky smile, and yells back to her, “Don’t forget to send a postcard!” He is glad for the sunglasses that hide the fear in his eyes as she disappears. 

* * *

 

The next week is hell. He spends some time fretting around HQ, pretending to be busy, pretending to care what the other agents are working on, pretending that his Wanderer isn’t the only thought occupying the hurricane of his mind. Dez notices the restlessness, but it is not in her nature to comment. Glory has no such courtesy. 

“Don’t you have something to do other than worry about Wanderer? Girl's tough, she's probably sweet talking her way into management right now.”

Deacon lets out a carefree laugh. “If you think I’m worried, you really haven’t been paying attention. I orchestrated this entire thing,” he says, gesturing wildly to accentuate the point, “and we're about to see it all pay off.” He's not worried. Stressed, anxious, maybe even a bit lonely without the woman who has been his partner for so long now, but never worried. Worry might bring form to the knots in his stomach saying it had been too long, she should have contacted them by now. So he tells himself that there is nothing to worry about, and since he's a good liar he almost believes it himself as he speaks the words. 

After that, he spends some time in Goodneighbor. It feels good to get out of HQ, and it doesn’t look as much like he's trying to look busy to the field agents he's checking up on who have no idea there's an agent undercover at the Institute as they speak. 

He spends his evenings there in The Third Rail, drinking more than he should as he listens to Magnolia sing. Wanderer always liked her songs, said she reminded her of one of her favorite singers before the bombs. Sometimes he'd catch her humming the melody quietly to herself the next day. When she noticed he was listening, she would quit immediately and turn away as if she were very busy, but the blush she couldn’t hide gave it away every time. He wished it didn’t embarrass her so much because it seemed like she had a beautiful voice, but no way was he going to say something like that.

He eventually bores of Goodneighbor. The lack of news from HQ does nothing to put him at ease. When he returns to the church, he puts on his cheer like a wig, because he is as undisturbed by the lack of contact from his Wanderer as one could possibly be. Which is to say he is terrified, and the only way he knows how to quiet the fear anymore is through a mask of humor. 

When everyone he crosses in HQ avoids eye contact with him, he finds it increasingly difficult to play his part. 

Drummer Boy eventually tries to speak, but cuts his words short before they begin, instead looking toward the list of agents on the board. Wanderer is crossed off. Deacon flashes him a look of anger that he can't see through the sunglasses, but he is sure the message gets across anyways. He storms toward Desdemona, who looks up at him with that infuriating indifference she is so adept at. 

She speaks before he gets a chance to erupt. "It's been a week, Deacon. She said she would send word if she was safe within three days. We don't even know if the signal interceptor worked. If she's alive now it's nothing short of a miracle, and this organization doesn't run on that kind of hope."

Deacon scoffs and responds much too loudly; he doesn't care who hears. "Then what the fuck does it run on? Last I checked we were operating on bleeding hearts and bad ideas until she showed up and gave us the best chance we've ever had. What goddamn right do you have to dismiss her like that?" Glory moves protectively beside Dez as Deacon raises his voice. 

Dez isn't fazed. "Go. Cool your head. Then we'll talk about our next steps."

He's not done. He wants her to know that what she did was one-hundred percent wrong, Wanderer is fine, and if she's not then they're going to storm the fucking Institute itself to get her back if that's what it takes, but he realizes it won't do any good here. He's acting like a child, and he is equal parts disgusted in himself and disgusted in the situation that's causing it. He says nothing as he turns toward the tunnel to the back exit. He's done here.

He doesn't get very far through the tunnel before he sees her.

She is unwounded, her skin and hair clean. He wonders if she is real until she speaks, and the sound that comes through is unmistakable. "Hey, Deacon. I missed you." She tries to be casual, but her voice almost breaks.

He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry, so he does the next best thing and makes light of the situation. "Tom's little machine must have done quite a number on your brain for you to say crazy things like that."

Her only reply is to wrap her arms around his neck in a tight, desperate hug. He wraps his own arms around her and tries to enjoy the stillness of the moment. She is warm and soft, and feels heavy against him. For a moment, he can't believe that he ever let her go; he doesn't think he ever will again. He leans his face down beside her hair and breathes her in. She is immaculately clean, sterile and harsh. She doesn't smell like his Wanderer.

* * *

 

After she briefs the Railroad on her activities in the Institute - she did it, somehow, they believe her - she spends time going back and forth from the Institute and the Railroad HQ. Every time, he asks how she's doing, and of course she says she's fine, because that's the appropriate way to answer that question and she is nothing if not hopelessly polite.

Still, she lets him indulge her in diversions when they can. He does what he can to keep her sane amidst all this chaos, and he knows that the truth about Shaun and this duplicity she finds herself engaged in is hurting her, physically and mentally.

Today, they buy noodles from Takahashi and take them to her residence nearby. They sit quietly side by side in a corner and enjoy the food, but even in the silence he can tell she is listless. "Something wrong? It's not the food, is it?" he adds a bit too quickly, because he can't help hiding any bit of concern in a little humor.

She puts down her fork, returning the scoop of noodles to the bowl. "Yeah, actually." She spins the fork, examining the food. "Just remembering what they're supposed to taste like. Before the war, I mean."

Deacon sets his own fork down. "What, you mean soggy razorgrain isn't the best thing you've ever eaten?"

She laughs, but it is empty. "I had crazy ramen cravings when I was pregnant with Shaun," she muses. "All day, just stupid amounts of the stuff. The saltier the better. For a little while after I had Shaun I couldn't even look at the stuff. Now it's pretty much the only thing that tastes anything like what I remember, but it's just a little bit wrong. Like everything." The last bit is barely a whisper.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to say, so he goes with what comes to mind first. "Everything? You mean to tell me even the Blamco mac-and-cheese is different now?" 

She grins at him, this one warm and sincere. The sadness in her eyes doesn't go away, but it never does anymore, so he finds victory in the smile. "Maybe there's one thing that hasn't changed."

"Mac-and-cheese and you: the only things that haven't changed in 200 years. I can live with that."

The smile is gone. "Not me. I barely recognize myself." They sit quietly, and she rests her head on his shoulder. Eventually, "I'm tired of lying to people I love."

He needs to make her believe him, because if nothing else he believes in her. "It'll be worth it in the end. You're doing good here, promise."

* * *

 

He joins her when the Institute sends her to Libertalia to recover Gabriel. He dresses as a mercenary and doesn’t talk much, but neither does the courser accompanying them and that suits him just fine. 

They reach Gabriel, and she hesitates. The courser doesn’t, and in an instant the recall code is read and the two are teleported away, leaving Deacon and Wanderer alone. 

That was almost as far removed from how he wanted it to go as it could have been, and he wants her to know it. “Well, I wasn’t planning on being an accessory to a murder today, but so it goes.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “And what would you have done, then?” Her voice is raised in anger or annoyance. 

“Anything but that? Hell, shooting him would’ve been more humane than resetting him.”

“And how is that any different than what we do to them at the Memory Den?” She is standing closer to him, her posture confrontational, her brows raised. 

“They have a choice. One the Institute never gives them.”

“Yeah? And how many of them don’t make that choice? Let's make a list. Glory… anyone else? Short list.”

He is getting angry now. “It's safer for them that way. It means they won't get caught and dragged back to _your son's_ pretty white tomb and turned into slaves again. Yeah, I think I'd go that route too.”

It was a low blow, and he knows it. She looks like she has been slapped in the face. The hurt and betrayal in her expression would have broken his heart if only he weren’t quite as angry at her too. 

Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “Please don’t make this any harder than it already is. I'm just trying to do my job.” 

Now he feels the guilt. This was what they sent her there for, and he's blaming her for being good at it. “Right. Well, there shouldn’t be any doubt now that you're on their side.” He tries to keep the bitter edge out of his voice and almost succeeds. 

“I just wish you could see things the way I see them. Maybe the Railroad’s way isn’t always the best. There are problems in what they do just like everything else, and if we don’t try to correct these mistakes then nobody is really going to make this world a better place.”

“Take it up with Dez. She's not always the most open to change, and she likes to err on the side of caution. Believe me, I've tried to get her to branch out before. No dice.”

She looks down, and in the yellow light of twilight he can see the tears sparkle at the corner of her eyes. She's stretching herself too thin in all this, and he wishes that there were some other way to go about this, to destroy the Institute, but she is all they have. It has to be her, it has to be his Wanderer, even though it will break them both. 

She looks him in the eyes, and for a moment he feels naked under her gaze, as if he weren’t hiding behind sunglasses much darker than the scene calls for. Such has always been the power of her gaze, the raw honesty and emotions behind it something he had always feared. “I'm afraid,” she confesses. “I'm afraid of what I’m going to have to do.”

“I'm not,” he answers with a confidence that surprises even himself. “You're gonna go out there and do the right thing, like you always do, and I've got your back whenever you ask.”

A tear falls from her eye, but before he has time to react to that she is at his lips, kissing him like the bombs are about to fall again, and if they did he thinks he wouldn’t mind. He clears his mind of all thoughts except those of his Wanderer in his arms, and how he hopes it will last. The tears that stream down her face flavor their kiss. It tastes like goodbye. 

* * *

 

HQ is in ruins. Quiet ruins, like a breath held too long. The silence is thick and palpable. He thinks he sees the body of Drummer Boy amidst the wreckage, a discarded pistol just out of reach. He picks it up, another to add to the collection of weapons that didn’t fire quite soon enough. 

He tries not to think of what this means. He was away for the afternoon, checking up on Old Man Stockton. There was no warning, no reason to expect any of this. 

Another body, this one belonging to Dez. He sees what used to be Tinker Tom in the corner. Carrington looks up at him with unseeing eyes, the blood staining his once pristine lab coat and flooding the musky room with a hot, metallic odor. 

He hears the sound of a gun arming from outside the door. He doesn’t want to look; he knows what he'll find. 

The soft soprano of his Wanderer echoes around the empty crypt. “No, Deacon. You weren’t supposed to be here.” Her voice is pleading, as if asking the fates to undo this so things could go her way instead. This wasn’t the kind of thing that could be undone. 

He wants to scream at her, call her a traitor, a fucking liar, anything to get the sound and the anger out, but the words don’t come. In a calm voice, he only asks, “Why?”

She comes around the corner so he can see her. Her combat armor is stained in blood, a cut angry across her arm, and her hair is matted and dirty, but still she carries herself with an elegance better suiting less violent times. “I tried to talk to them. The Institute… They're the best chance of making things better. They need to change, but Shaun has put me in charge. I can do this. I can make the world better with the Institute behind me. Desdemona and Carrington couldn’t see that.”

“So you murdered them.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t want this! But it's the only way the Institute would have it. I swear this kind of thing will never happen again, not while I’m in charge.”

Deacon stops her. “No, I don’t care. Do what you’ve come to do and go back to your fucking Institute.” He wonders how he didn’t see this coming. She was no liar, and reading people was his job. Yet here they stand, the world's last two idealists, and he knows only one of them will walk away. 

He chose her for this, he sent her to them, but damn it all he believed in her the entire time. All the Railroad’s hopes had been riding on her success, and now they were just as dead as their former colleagues. 

She is crying, and he hates that it hurts him. “Deacon, please, I just want you to understand. I'm going to fix things.”

She can't fix this. “I thought you were here to help the Commonwealth, but you just want to live in your shiny walls built by slaves pretending the whole world above ground isn't fucked. You’ve made your choice.”

She is begging him now. “Deacon, please, just listen to me! Come with me, see what they're doing there. I'll shut down the SRB, you can be in charge of how we treat the synths from now on. Anything you want, I just need you with me while I do this!”

Her words hurt. He knew he couldn’t accept her offer – it wouldn’t end well for either of them, and she was as naiive as ever if she thought anyone at the Institute would accept him, or that he deserved to be there any more than the people who now lay dead on the floor. 

“Out of all the people you try so hard to save, and it has to be this fraud.”

She sobs lightly. “I don't want to do this without you.” 

He knows what she's going to say. She could have chosen any other time for it and maybe things would be different. Maybe, but… No, he did what he could, but in the end they were just from two different worlds. They would know of each other as their orbits crossed, go through the motions of familiarity, but try as they might they could never truly understand each other beneath the surface. She had never lied to him; he had only deceived himself. She had never been _his_ Wanderer, and now she never would. 

“I love you,” she whispers, and it hurts even more than he thought it would as he responds by raising the pistol he had taken from Drummer Boy toward her. 

“Yeah,” he replies. She raises her own gun. 

A shot fires. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO SORRY. I had this little idea this afternoon, and I’m going to blame it on the concussion I got last Thursday for giving me this awful idea as I get used to my new brain. 
> 
> Also, for those concerned, I'm still working on What Makes Us Real. I had some writer's block with how to begin the next chapter, and then the semester started and I had to do a bunch of stuff for my thesis, and then I got the aforementioned concussion. This was just a little exercise to get back into writing, plus I wanted to explore my Deacon voice again. And, you know, I don't like happiness.


End file.
